Authors: Matt Stephens
Dorcan pulled the blindfold down over his eyes and notched an arrow, aiming his longbow at the target on the far side of the Chamber. The Shinobi were trained in the dojo, but at this time of night there was rarely anyone there. One or two came to use the workout equipment. Yasi came to train, and maintain her equipment. Dorcan had been stopping by while she was there, polishing his skills with the bow.
Thwapp! Dorcan released the arrow, and it speared across the large chamber, to the targets set up at the other end. Dorcan rapidly notched another arrow at let fly, then a third before the second had even reached it's target.
Pause.
Dorcan lifted his blindfold. "Did I?"
Yasi didn't even turn to look. "Of course you did; you always do. How often do you miss?"
"Not often." Dorcan admitted proudly.
Yasi went back to methodically sharpening her sword, but looked up as she heard someone coming to the entrance to her chamber. "Come in."
Archivist came up from the ropes to her room and smiled at her. "We got word from Wotcha."
Yasi sat up straighter. "And?"
Archivist handed her a note.
Yasi-
It's done. You're safe.
-
Vincent
Yasi let out a breath in relief. "Good."
"Wotcha tells me he's undergone something of a revelation. She says if the personality change sticks, he might be worth recruitment after all." Archivist considered her a moment. "If he'd gone the other way… If he'd decided to out us to the world… would you really have done it?"
Yasi didn't answer for a moment. She drew her sword and ran the stone down the length, sharpening it carefully. "I'm supposed to protect these people from those that would treat us as freaks. A week ago, he was just like all of them. Blind, closed-minded, cold… The First Duty of the Shinobi is to protect The Secret. Yes, I would have done it." She drew the stone across her blade again. "But I'm very glad I don't have to."
THREE: Intensive Care
One Year Later…
The Triumvirate came into the Round Table Room and locked the door behind them. Keeper went to the equipment at the far end of the room and went to some effort to make it work. Yasi looked around the room, at the banners and the large polished round table that gave the room its name. "Air smells kinda thick."
"Stale." Archivist agreed. "This room has been sealed for years. I heard there was a message coming and I had to dig up records of the last one." Keeper sent him a look that shared his concern. It was rare that something so out of routine took place; and there was a feeling of tension in the room; kept only between the three of them.
"Who else knows about this?" Keeper asked Yasi.
"Only the three of us and Dorcan." The Shinobi Captain reported dutifully; her voice low with worry. "When was the last time Berlin Below called us?"
"Not since the end of the Second World War." Archivist murmured. "They wanted to send refugees here when the Allies started closing in. They were afraid of discovery."
"Did we accept?" Keeper asked.
"Nope."
The ghostly image projected at the opposite side of the table coalesced into a humanoid shape, before focusing like a three dimensional movie projection. The image focused into being at one end of the round table, and Keeper sat down opposite, Yasi on her left, Archivist on her right. The image focused sharply, suddenly solidifying in the pale white smoke, becoming a person. The projection was of a man in a last-century cavalry uniform, complete with rank and gold trim on his lapels.
"
Guten tag
." He said to them, his voice heavy with a German accent. "I am VonGunn, Principal of Berlin Below."
Keeper rose. "I am Keeper, of the New York Underside." She responded with formality. "Your call was… surprising. How may we be of service?"
VonGunn fiddled with his goatee, revealing how nervous he was, though he hid it behind a very proud set of manners. "It has been too long since we have spoken last. Indeed, we owe much to our ilk in the New World. We have been shamefully lax in that regard."
Archivist sent Yasi a look. The New York Underside was the result of some of its wealthiest citizens sinking their fortunes into creating the place almost a century before; but it was human nature to abandon places that were not of use, and those forgotten moved into them. There was more than one Secret City in the world; though New York was the only one deliberately made. Their predecessors had once reached out from New York and shared that knowledge and culture with others like them.
Yasi sent Keeper a glance. The older Lostkind took her cue and let Yasi lean forward. "Principal. I am Yasi, Captain of Security for the New York Underside. It is indeed good to hear from you; but I can't help but wonder if there's something that brought us to mind recently?"
VonGunn shook his head, unconcerned. "No, nothing really. Just seemed like the time."
Yasi nodded, equally unconcerned. "Well then. It's great to hear from you. How's the weather in Europe?"
VonGunn sighed, and came to the point. "Fine. It has come to our attention that a man named Owen Niklos is currently in New York City. If you would be so kind as to arrange for his transport here, we will be ever so grateful."
"Why? What's he been up to?" Yasi demanded sharply. "Must be something big if it meant calling."
VonGunn looked uncomfortable. "At the moment, we have no evidence he is doing anything. We deeply regret that this man has become involved with you at all."
"Owen Niklos isn't involved with us. In fact, his name is not familiar to us at all." Keeper leaned forward. "If we'd known he was one of yours we would have extended an invitation…"
"He's not." VonGunn said quickly. "He is not one of us, but he's been a person of interest for some time in an... internal matter. If you will... collect him, and send him on to us, we feel sure we can keep you informed of anything he might say regarding his… activities."
"If you weren't aware of any of that, what do you want him for?" Yasi asked directly.
VonGunn hesitated again, and Keeper put a hand out quickly. "Principal, my Security Chief has a valid point, but we can see you're obviously unaware of what Owen was up while he was here. If you can allow us time to insure that there is no threat to us because of his time here, we would be happy to make the whole mess be your problem."
VonGunn fiddled with his goatee again. "Yes… I see your point. However… His presence here is required… most urgently. I think that it takes precedence over any trouble you're having with the man. We would… send him back, once we were done with him."
Yasi and Archivist both looked to Keeper.
"Finders keepers." Keeper cracked suddenly, fierce as a whip crack, and disconnected. An instant later, they were alone at the Round Table.
Keeper spun on Yasi. "Yasi, Niklos might not be a problem for us, but best to find out now."
The Shinobi Captain was already thinking. "Long shot. It's a big city, Keep. Finding one guy that doesn't want to be found..."
"I know." Keeper nodded. "But Berlin want him for something. Something serious enough to break a sixty year streak of
not
calling us. VonGunn is scared. Find out why, Yasi."
"When I find Owen Niklos, what do I do?" Yasi asked.
"For now, nothing." Keeper said, sending a look to Archivist who nodded agreement. "He hasn't done anything to us, and until that changes, he could be here because he's scared of VonGunn. All our information on Berlin Below is sixty years out of date."
Archivist agreed. "We can't plan out our next move or put our pieces on the board until we know what game we're playing."
Yasi stood. "I have to talk to Wotcha."
~oo00oo~
Officer Grey waved his badge at the Beat Cops laying out the Crime Scene Tape along the Hudson River. They checked it and waved him through. "What have we got?"
"Three bodies. Two male; one female." The Medical Examiner told him; leading the way over. "None of them over thirty. The bodies are stripped; but that's the
least
bizarre part of this crime scene."
"Tell me." Grey responded; lighting up a cigarette.
"The bodies washed up on shore; but this area was patrolled by the Beat Cops last night before high tide."
"So they didn't wash up; they were dumped."
"That was what I thought too, but there would have been tracks in this kind of mud. Plus, there's very little mud on the bodies; so they had to come from the water; not the road. Harbor Patrol swears that there were no boats on the water that time of night."
"So... what?" Grey drew the timeline in his head. "They washed up
after
the tide?"
"Best guess is that they came up from under the water at the wrong time."
"Then they must have been down there a while. Mob hit?"
"Cause of death is hard to pin down. No poisoning I can see; no wounds of any kind. The bodies are untouched. There's some bruising around the arms, knuckles and torso; but not enough to kill. Before they died; they were in a scrap."
"Well, check..." Grey trailed off as he got a closer look at the corpses. They were all ghostly pale; all without a single hair on their bodies. The bruises were small but showed up brilliantly against their impossibly pale skin. "Whoa."
The ME nodded. "Yeah; there it is. Their skin has
no
pigmentation. At all. I have never in my life seen that. If they were alive they'd probably be screaming in the sun right now."
"Well, that's strange." Grey scanned around the Crime Scene, getting a feel for the area, and noticed a small boy sneaking under the tape; trying to get a closer look. "Hey!" Grey shouted. "Get outta here! There's nothing for you to see."
The kid held his hands up obediently and turned to run away from the tape. Grey turned back to his crime scene; and found an old homeless woman at the edge of the police tape; right next to the ambulance. She was leaning on the ambulance wall for support; holding out an empty Styrofoam cup to his Medical Examiner. He wandered over and cleared his throat.
The ME looked up awkwardly. "Forensics has photos of everything. We can move the bodies."
Grey nodded. "Good." He turned his gaze to the hunched over old woman. "You need to move along now."
"Spare some change mister?" Her voice wavered beseechingly.
Grey slapped at his pockets for a moment and found nothing readily available. "Sorry, no. You need to get off my crime scene."
She nodded and turned to go. Grey turned to the waiting orderlies; having already forgot her. He glanced around. No sign of anyone listening. He drew his phone and dialed a number from memory. "It's Grey." He reported. "I thought you should know; there's a small mess you need to look into at the 10th Precinct Morgue."
~oo00oo~
New York City had more than two thousand public chess tables, spread out in over five hundred and thirty parks. It was a popular pastime, and in the south west corner of Washington Square Park, almost all of them played for money.
Checkov was a regular in Washington Square Park. He was a professional player. Cursed with a disorder Vincent couldn't even pronounce, his face was in constant motion with tics and twitches. His face settled whenever he spoke, but would not hold still ever otherwise. Most people avoided him, fear of his condition keeping them away. His illness made finding work difficult, and without medical insurance, he was frequently off his medication.
But behind his twitching drooling face was one of the sharpest minds Vincent had ever known. Whatever else Checkov was, he was a fantastic chess player, and supported himself most days by playing total strangers for money. Ten, twenty dollars at a time, he made enough to buy himself food, and sometimes his medicine. When it got cold he bought hot drinks for himself and his friends.
That was how he met Vincent. On one of his bad days, his face was twitching uncontrollably, and nobody else would play with him. Vincent was reluctant to play for money against a homeless man, but quickly found himself in the middle of a race to simply stop his defeat being humiliating.
It had been a long time since Vincent had seen the Underground. He was still friends with Wotcha, and chess with Checkov had become a regular part of his routine. Even so, he still kept the lantern, still looked through the old archives. The previous year had seemed the most interesting of his life, because that one night had taught him the importance of being observant. In his life, Vincent had never spent a more self-aware year, been more conscious of what was happening around him. He never knew if some of the strange things that nobody remarked on was part of a grander, secret world, or it was just New York, but he felt like he was seeing them for the first time.
"How did you get good?" Checkov asked Vincent as he countered.
Vincent shrugged. "My dad taught me to play, then a few clubs in school. Mostly I learned by playing a lot online." Checkov moved and slapped the clock. Vincent checked the board over and hesitated. "How about you?"